Salt Water Muffins

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You walk into the open front door, the smell of newly baked goods filling your senses and making your stomach rumble with a less-than-quiet (and attractive) sound. What can you say? You're a just out of high school bo- man who doesn't exactly have enough moneyto feed himself proper food. Which explains why you're back at home, barely a week after you left. You're fucking hungry and you knew there was no better place to get free food then from your mother. True, if you go home with your wallet a bit fuller, you aren't going to complain, but food was your main reason.

"Hello famil-" You reach the dining room, where you find them sitting around, and it was just like you remembered it, except there was some...boy in your seat, "Who the fuck is he?"

Your mother grins, ignoring the last bit, "Hello, sweetheart. You didn't tell us you were coming by today."

"That's because it was supposed to be a surprise," you reply shortly, glaring at the unknown boy and hoping that he would turn into a pile of ashes, or perhaps a fork because there's a piece of cake in front of him you wouldn't mind eating, "Why is there some kid in my seat?"

Your mother continues talking, and you're starting to believe she's gone deaf, "Well, what a lovely surprise it was. Come sit down and eat. You look like a toothpick."

"I would sit down, but someone is in my seat. I've said this like three times already," you pause to glare some more, "And I don't look like a damn toothpick. I have lean muscle, Mother. MUSCLE. Toothpicks don't have muscle."

Your little sister, annoying twit that she is, decides to join in on the conversation, her mouth full and almost overflowing with chocolate, "...if you put a piece of beef or something on a toothpick, would that make it have muscle? Because it is muscle, isn't it? They don't teach us-"

"You're drooling chocolate," your mother tells her, tissue in hand, "Don't talk with your mouth full."

She sighs, "You never scold Daddy when he does it."

"That's because Dad isn't a money moocher," you say, "and he doesn't drool like you do. Now, back to the important matter. Who is this thing in my seat? Don't act like you don't see him, because Angie is making lovesick eyes at his back right now. It's quite gross to watch."

Her eyes widen as she wipes the chocolate trail off her chin, "I was not! Mom! Tell Callum he's not allowed to tell lies under your roof."

My mother blinks and hands her a clean napkin, "We can all see you're doing it, honey."

Angie deflates for a second, "Oh. Well, then tell him he can't embarrass me under your roof. It's rude, now that he doesn't live here anymore."

You feel the urge to scream, but manage to hold it in, "Man creature. In my seat. Who. Is. He?"

"Ah!" You mother exclaims, like she just realizes what you mean. You hope that isn't the case, "This is Jordan..."

"Flowers," a meek voice cuts in. You notice through your anger induced haze that the voice is rather cute, but you shove the thought away.

"He just moved in across the street a few days ago. It's his birthday today. Turning..."

"Twenty," the would-be-cute-if-you-were-not-to-busy-being-mad-at-the-human-it-belonged-to voice says.

"Yes, twenty, and we figured it would be nice to have a little happy birthday slash welcome-to-the-neighborhood party. You see, he just moved here from…"

"Canada."

" - And he's feeling quite homesick and lonely. Or so his mother tells me. A nice woman, she is. Excellent manners."

"Lovely," you reply blandly, and you see that this boy- Jordan Flowers- has a rather handsome profile. You immediately ban the thought, walk over to his -your- seat, and you tap him on the shoulder, "Move."

Your mother glares, and you sigh, adding a not so sincere, "Please."

He nods and does gets up, and you see the way his hands are shaking as he places them on the tabletop to give him balance as he moves over to an empty chair. You sit down, quite smug-like and shamelessly enjoying the way your seat is already warm.

The top of his dyed head dips closer to the table and you can't see anything but pale skin and dark red lips.

They tremble.

You look away and at all of the sugary food on the table, wondering when the hell they had the time to make all of it. There's a large chocolate cake, a smaller vanilla one, two knife mutilated pumpkin pies, a tray of chocolate chips cookies, and a tin of newly made poppy seed muffins. There are a few empty plates that you're sure had more cake on it, but your eyes barely stray from the muffins.

"Can I eat?" you ask, hand already reaching out to grab one. They are calling your name, really, and who are you to ignore it?

Your mother obviously doesn’t care about that, and your knuckles are hit with a butter knife. If it was another other person, they may have just ignored it, but your handswere sensitive...and fuck it hurt.

"Have you washed your hands yet? I don't think you have. Do that, and you can have some."

Normally, you would've picked one up anyway, but you're too hungry to argue and you get up, sliding out of the dining room to go into the kitchen.

When you reach it, everyone starts to question Jordan, and they continue doing it as you turn on the water, and as you put soap on your hands, and even as you're drying them off on a clean towel. They only stop when you come back in and you realize that you never heard the boy respond to any of them.

Not that you fully take it in.

There was a muffin on the table that was just asking to be eaten. And eat it you will.

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A half an hour later your pants need to be unbuttoned, and maybe your hands have chocolate all over them. Your mother left five minutes ago to go check in on your father, who you learned had a fever and was stuck in bed. You made a note to go say hi later.

Your sister is babbling to the boy, who you call boy even though he's older than you are, and he doesn't really seem to be listening, nodding his head every so often. Angie beams in response and her mouth keeps moving. You can't help but feel pity for him because she'll talk about anything and everything if she thinks you're listening. Your fork, that you just ate a large piece (or two) of cake with, lands on your plate with a purposely loud clank and she shuts up.

"My ears can only take so much," you tell her, and she knows you enough not to take in any deeper. She sticks her tongue out at you and calls you a toothpick, and you end up with chocolate on your hair which is scarily almost the same color.

You sigh because you're used to it, taking the time of silence to look for the last muffin you saw in the tin. When you see the tin, you blink.

The muffin isn't there anymore.

It doesn't take you long to find it, because the trembling hands it is in aren't far away. You glare at the boy, who isn't looking up, and hold out your hand.

"The muffin, if you could give it to me, I'll..." you think, "Well, do nothing, but I'd like the muffin anyway."

His voice is quiet, and you doubt you would've been able to hear it if your mother was in here and rambling, "...but I haven't had one yet."

"Good for you," you reply, falsely bright, "What's your point?"

"You had...most of the other ones. I just wanted...one of them. I don't-"

"Right, and if it wasn't the last one, I would be completely happy to hand it over, but it's not, so please, do give it to me."

"...No. I want it," his lips tremble again, and when he turns his head a little you can see his eyes are glazing over with tears. Holy fucking god damnit, "Please."

You aren't going to cave for the brat, "No. It's my house, my mother's food, and I want the damn muffin."

"Please," he tries again weakly, and you wonder why the fuck he's getting so emotional about it. It's a muffin, for God’s sake, not some puppy someone is threatening to put down.

"It's a muffin, for fucks sake. A god damn muffin. There are plenty of other ones you can have."

"But..." he bits his lip, "Please," God, it sounds more pathetic than it did before.

"F-" You almost say fine, but you cut yourself off, and stand up, plucking the muffin from his hand and licking it, making sure to not leave one bit uncovered before you place it back in his hands, "Go ahead and eat it now."

Jordan looks down at it and burst into tears.

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This is how your mind finds you all, you staring at him like he's from some other planet, Angie patting his back, which seems to do worse than any help, and him sobbing into his hands. A few stray tears leak through his fingers.

Your mom yells at you, and Jordan gets a hug, and Angie gets her hand stuck in between.

In the end, you're left with Angie in the dining room, your mother off to rant to your father no doubt, and the boy in the bathroom getting himself cleaned up.

"God, you're such an ass sometimes, you know that?" Angie asks, and then scoffs, "Of course you know that. Your whole point in life is to be a bastard to everyone and everything you don't like. Right?" She doesn't wait for you to answer, "The poor man just lost a boyfriend, his father, and everything he's fucking known for his whole life."

You blink, "And he told you all of this?"

"No, his mom told our mom, who told me. He's practically broken in tiny pieces and you are just...being you. He doesn't deserve that right now."

"Was I supposed to know all of this? I would've tried to be nicer-"

"I'm sure you would have. But it's too late now, isn't it?" She sighs, "You're evil."

"You make it sound so horrible."

"It is, you-" she begins to say, and trails off like she can't remember what the word she was going to use was. It does't matter anyway, because the bathroom door was opening and Jordan steps out, small frame racking with leftover sobs.

He seems to be crying without tears.

He wipes at his eyes as moves closer to the front door you came in not so long ago, "I'm just-" choked sob, "Just going-"

Feet shuffle against hard wood floors and the door soon slams with a weak force.

Fucking boy, making you feel bad.

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You're not sure what possessed you to stand on the doorstep you saw him run up the day before, but you're standing there, freezing your ass off at eight o'clock in the morning with a small paper bag in hand and the other poised just above the doorbell.

Press it,you command yourself. You hand doesn't listen. Press it damnit.

You breathe in deeply, lick your chapped lips, and the door swings open, scaring the hell out of you and causing you to drop the bag. You pick it back up and look at the woman now in the doorway.

"Is Jordan here?" you ask, and then mentally beat yourself for sounding so impatient.

She nods, looking slightly confused like she's wondering why the hell you were standing there, but you don't have time to think about anymore when she's gone and her body is replaced by a smaller and slight mussed one.

Jordan looks even more confused than she did. You think he looks cuter.

"Callum?" He questions, and you see with shame that his eyes are still kind of bloodshot.

"Nice to see you caught my name," you reply, and then you hold the paper bag out to him, somewhat awkwardly, "Here."

He blinks a few times quickly, "What?"

"Take the bag," you say. He doesn't and you sigh, "It's a muffin. I bought one at the Shell station. On the corner. I made sure it was a poppy seed one. It should be fully edible. I didn't poison it or anything."

His expression melts into something you can't explain and he does take it this time.

You nod and turn around, fully intending on going home, when he stops you with six quiet, shy sounding words.

"Do you want to come in?"

You freeze, and surprisingly it doesn't take you long to come up with the answer, "Sure."

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You end up finding out that his mom's name is Andrea, his father's name was Lawrence, and that he has a cat named Cinnamon that is always sleeping. You see his tons of picture frames, none of them empty, and you see his collection of flat pennies that his dad used to collect and now he keeps them. You taste the new carton of milk in his fridge, the ice in the freezer has a bit of lemon in it, and you somehow find yourself tasting the dried paint on his fingertips.

You admit you wouldn't mind learning more.

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A/N: Meow. Here's my muffin one-shot thingy. Lol. It's not how I pictured it before, but it's okay, I guess. I mean, I don't hate it yet. Hehe. Review would be awesome, as always. I'll never know you read if you don't. ::would insert long setence correcting myself, but I'm too lazy.::